city of angels
by outside the crayon box
Summary: "I love you, Cam." "I love you too, Claire." / Dylan hasn't stopped screaming for years. / It takes Kristen less than ten minutes to become a prostitute. / Alicia spins on her heel, without sparing a glance over her shoulder, and walks away. / "Oh, there's no need for dressing up, Derrick, I always knew you were an angel." traditional pairings and a lot of angst, with some fluff


**city of angels by outside the crayon box**

**for kimmie, the amazing wifey (everybody was kissing fire), with prompts of sour candy, cold weather, cafes, and snow angels. prompts are also in bold.**

**triggers - some drugs, alcohol, partying, and sex. nothing descriptive and not really the main theme.**

**word count - 5486**

* * *

_here comes an angel in the form of a girl - she's the finest, sweetest thing in the world  
- heaven tonight, hole_

There's always been something ethereal in the simple beauty of Claire Lyons, in the way her white-blonde hair tumbles in loose waves down her back, the way her gentle blue eyes take in the world around her, the way her radiant smile lights up his life.

Cameron Fisher watches his girlfriend approach him, smiling knowledgeably. She's lightly holding the upper arm of her younger brother, and he's squirming out of her grip, but he can't fully untangle himself.

Cam grins as he watches the pair come closer, and suddenly Claire is next to him. "Hey, Cam," she greets him, her eyes twinkling.

As always, he's dumbfounded.

Todd punches him. "Yo, buddy, starry-eyed or what? Come on, you guys promised you'd drive me over to the field."

Cam hits back. "Leave me alone, or we'll leave you _here_." He takes Claire's hand, murmurs "hey, gorgeous" in her ear and slips her a bag of **sour candy**, and the beam she gives him makes his heart pound.

_Holycrapshe'sperfect._

:'*':

The best part of the whole thing is that five weeks later, she's still perfect. She's still beautiful and stunning and kind and sympathetic and an _angel_.

His angel.

:'*':

On the last day of their last mandatory year of school (at least by law; in Westchester, it's mandatory to go to an Ivy League college), Cam waits for Claire outside Briarwood Octavian Country Day, a rose in his hand.

She skips over to him and pecks him on the cheek, accepting the flower. "You didn't have to," she insists.

"Of course I did. And anyway, we play this game every time. There's no point in pretending," Cam teases, and her laugh, like a light tinkling of bells, warms him from the inside out. "I know you love roses."

"Aw, stop blushing." Claire places a pale hand on his palm. "I love you, Cam."

"I love you, too, Claire."

And the sunshine surrounds them, wrapping them in warmth, bathing her in a golden light, and Cam would swear on his life (still will) that she has white feathered wings that flutter in the breeze.

* * *

_coming down, the world turned over; angels fall without you there; life goes on as you get colder; always someone there  
black balloon, goo goo dolls_

To the rest of Westchester, Christopher Plovert is a teenage saint. But to Dylan Marvil, all he represents is darkness and a plethora of blood-red cuts on a porcelain-pale wrist.

Dylan's destroyed nails trace sharp patterns over her arm, crimson beads of liquid trickling down toward her elbow, then dropping onto the hospital bed. The mint-green sheets soak them up, and they disappear, forever staining the world in which she is forced to live.

Her brain is the only thing keeping her alive, as she's sure her heart stopped beating months ago. And even her mind is deteriorating. They use words like mentally disturbed and insane, as though Dylan can't hear them, as though she won't understand that they're talking about her.

And anyway, she's not crazy.

Just sad.

So unbearably sad.

Tears drip from eyes that were once long-lashed and emerald-green and shimmering. Now they're blank, lifeless pools of sorrow.

They tell Dylan that one day she will be happy again. She will rise from this bed and smile and skip back off into the world of normalcy.

Only she's not sure she even knows what happiness is anymore.

:'*':

"Dylan?" ventures a male voice from the door to her room.

With the sound comes scattered memories: trashed nights of wild sex, money disappearing down the drain, never to be seen again, and she screams, high-pitched and painful. Her throat stings.

"Dylan!" the voice repeats.

She swings over the edge of the bed, toes scrabbling at the rough floor in an effort to get out, get out, get out before he ever gets near her again.

Away. She needs to get away.

"Dylan!" A hand is placed on her shoulder, and she screams again, trying to twist away from the weight, the pain.

"Get away from me!" she shouts.

"Dylan, it's me, Chris."

She hears the leer behind those words, knows he won't hesitate to do what he always does: trap her and hit her until she screams for mercy.

Dylan hasn't stopped screaming for years.

:'*':

The doctors are in her room with her mother when they discuss her future.

"Ms. Marvil, we are afraid we're going to have to commit your daughter to a mental institution for the remainder of her life. Courts would consider what she did assault, and it's clear she isn't fit to stand trial."

Dylan pretends to be asleep as she listens to them.

"But she's going to be okay," Merri-Lee insists, her voice pleading, desperate. "And she'll come home and we'll celebrate and-" She rambles on and on, oblivious to the truth that's staring her in the face, in the form of a too-thin girl with oily red hair.

So maybe everyone is their own kind of insane.

:'*':

Christopher Plovert leads a young, nameless blonde girl (nineteen, at the most) into a back room at his favorite club, and even though she reminds him that she's not even an adult, not ready, and she's not on protection (so many no's, so many not's), he takes her with painful thrusts.

So Dylan Marvil is in a mental institution. Chris visits her about once a month, for show, and pats her on the hand (she hates when he touches her, and rightly so), convincing her that he still loves her, no matter what.

But even though Dylan's wasting away in her mind's prison, the world still turns.

* * *

_she's talking to angels and counting the stars, and making wishes on passing cars  
- waiting for superman, daughtry_

From the tender age of six, all Kristen Gregory wanted was her own fairy-tale. She dreamed of that one boy, the boy who went out of his way to bring her flowers and gifts, the boy who comforted her when she was sad or alone, the boy who waited at the end of the aisle as she walked down it in a white dress. She wanted The One.

As she gets older, she realizes there isn't only one.

There are billions, and none of them are right for her. They come and go, with fake 'n' bake charms and sweet smiles and shaggy hair, but The One, The One that she's always wanted isn't there.

:'*':

Kristen last desperate attempt to find The One culminates at Aqua Steam, Westchester's only strip club. Located in the "trashy" part of town (only five or so minutes away from where Kristen lives, in the _opposite_ direction of OCD, of course), Aqua Steam is a place for spoiled teenage boys without a care in the world to congregate and take advantage of a poor young girl only trying to make a living.

The club probably isn't the place to look for a long-term boyfriend, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Inside, at a wooden podium, a fifty-year-old man with greasy salt-and-pepper hair and a greedy smile demands, "May I help you?" His eyes rove over her, and Kristen has to resist the urge to cross her arms and bolt.

She has to meet this boy. She knows he's here, and she will meet him. "I would like to," her cheeks flaming red, she looks at the floor as she mumbles, "apply for a job."

"Louder, please, miss." With a wicked smirk, the man places a filthy hand under Kristen's chin and forces her to look up at him. "Repeat yourself."

"I would like to apply for a job." Kristen stares him in the eyes and holds out a hand. "Do I need to fill something out?"

"Just sign this." He hands her a form and a pen, and she scribbles her signature on the dotted line.

It takes Kristen less than ten minutes to become a prostitute.

A slut, ho, bitch, whore, whatever those princesses at OCD want to call it. That's her now.

Straight-A Kristen Gregory, who plays soccer and tutors and is valedictorian of the senior class, now works at a strip club.

:'*':

The next day, a boy she knows from days long gone marches in, leading a group of cronies. He's two years older than her, with an evil grin and a glinting gold tooth in the back of his mouth.

_Douche_, Kristen thinks but doesn't say, because she's there to serve the customers, not degrade them.

They only get to degrade her.

"I want _you_." The boy that she used to know grabs her by her arm and leads her to a back room, undressing her with large hands, his dark blue eyes roaming parts of her body she's never exposed.

She wants to run. She wants to say she never signed up for something like this. She wants to sprint. Instead, she pleads and begs and asks for mercy over and over and over and over.

"A virgin, eh?" Christopher Plovert snickers before plunging into her.

:'*':

It's been six months, and she's been abused too many times to count, and Kristen needs to escape from this hell she now calls life. She hasn't found The One, hasn't found _any_one, and she's making herself sick stressing about everything.

Or maybe that's the baby.

Kristen's standing at the edge of the road, at one in the morning. It's mid-March, and the **cold weather** is supposed to be over, but it's lightly snowing, the white dust resting on her threadbare peacoat that had been a gift from Massie Block way back in high school. There are enough flurries piled on the sidewalks for young children to make **snow angels**, and Kristen wonders if one day her child will want to make them too.

The occasional car whizzes by without slowing to ask why she, a young woman, is standing there alone, which only serves to prove her invisibility. Her hands rest on her stomach, which is expanding with each passing day.

Apparently, the douche (who she'd thought was still Dylan Marvil's boyfriend) had gotten her pregnant that horrible time. She's heard that amazing things can come from the most terrible nights, but she knows the baby will be horrid and ill and it will be all because of Kristen, because the child will be a shadow of her, and Kristen already feels like a shadow.

Every time a Mercedes passes, every time a star above her flickers brightly, every time the baby kicks, she prays that this will all be over soon.

* * *

_it's too cold outside for angels to fly  
__a-team, ed sheeran_

Alicia Rivera wobbles on her too-tall heels, teetering dangerously, her big, brown, long-lashed eyes filling with tears that drip down her smooth cheeks and drop to the carpet beneath her feet. The world spins, and she twists forward, her stomach convulsing as it lets its contents disappear down the porcelain bowl in front of her. Her throat gags and an unattractive noise passes through her lips. Her head pounds.

The boy next to her pats her awkwardly on the shoulder. He's in the ladies' restroom, painfully uncomfortable. With one hand, he holds Alicia's thick, raven-black hair back, with the other, he scratches his chin. "Are you . . . okay?" he ventures, his deep voice echoing off the tile walls.

"I'm fine," she insists, but all she wants is to sleep for the rest of her life. She feels like she's half-flying, half-sinking, and she doesn't know who this kid is, doesn't know where she is, doesn't know _who_ she is, goddammit.

She just wants to go _home_.

:'*':

He brings her back to her stately brown mansion, finds the spare key under a fake rock, and tucks her into bed, but by then she's so long-gone she doesn't even bother to get his name.

:'*':

The next day, Alicia wakes up. Her mouth tastes of dead rat and cotton, and her head whirls, her brain pushing painfully against the inside of her skull. Her skin feels as though it is stretched too tight, and when she rolls over to check the time (2:21 PM), her entire body aches with the effort.

_Ding!_

With an irritated sigh, she reaches for her phone, which is resting on her nightstand, even though she's positive she left it in the club yesterday evening. She tries to think back on it (she's not even sure how she got home), but her eyes blur and begin to sting, and she knows it's better not to try to recall anything.

_Ding!_

Alicia opens her texts, reading seven:

**1-914-438-2812: Are you okay?  
1-914-438-2812: This is Alicia Rivera, right?  
1-914-438-2812: I'm pretty sure this is the number you gave me, unless I'm mixing up a 3 with a 5.  
1-914-438-2812: Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were feeling better.  
1-914-438-2812: Please text me back - I don't know why you'd be mad with me, but I hope you're not. I only helped you get home last night, nothing else.  
1-914-438-2812: Come on, no one sleeps this late, even hungover.  
1-914-438-2812: Seriously, Alicia, are you alright?  
**

It's endearing, sure, but she really doesn't want anything to do with mystery kid, whether or not he helped her out when she was drunk. How had he even gotten her number? She is pretty positive she wouldn't have given it to him, but she isn't too sure of anything at the moment.

She won't answer him. There's no reason to.

:'*':

Alicia steps into soft black Seven jeans and a burgundy draped-silk YSL top, sliding white patent leather ballet flats onto her feet, curling her pink-painted toes, and grabbing a matching handbag. She fastens on gold and onyx drop earrings and heads out the door, pausing only to grab a hazelnut latte. It's her first day working as a journalist for In Touch magazine, and she refuses to anything less than perfectly professional, and that includes being even one millisecond late.

She enters the modern glass headquarters that serves as New York City headquarters, flashing her pass at the doorman before heading into an elevator.

_Ding!_

Alicia jumps, almost upending her coffee, but saves it at the last minute. She unlocks her phone.

**1-914-438-2812: I know it's been almost three months, but I can't stop thinking about you. Please answer, Alicia.  
****1-914-438-2812: By the way, if you don't remember, I'm the boy who helped you at the club that night.**

She swallows hard, the memory of that incident coming back at full force. Why hadn't she answered him?

Quickly, she types out a reply, her manicured fingernails clicking on the screen so hard that it's a surprise the glass doesn't crack.

**1-914-729-5092: I remember you; I'm sorry I didn't answer before. But I'm actually on my way to work, so if you don't mind, is it okay if I call you later?**

**1-914-438-2812: Definitely! I'm so happy you're fine.**

She's reading the message, smiling in spite of herself, when the doors open at floor five. She steps out, her flats making thwick-thwack noises on the marble floors. She's looking down as she automatically turns right, then left, where she meets her employer in her giant corner offi-

"I'm so sorry!" comes an exclamation.

Alicia looks up in shock as she comes into contact with a muscular young men, with deeply tanned skin, chocolate-colored eyes, and red lips. Her breath catches. "It's fine," she manages. She knows she should say that it isn't his fault, it's hers, especially since she's looking at her phone, but . . .

_Holyfreakingfuckingshitcrapyouhavegottobekiddingme._

It was the boy.

:'*':

Centuries later, she's still standing there, her lips parted in a neat, glossed O, staring in obvious disbelief. "You're-"

"Josh Hotz. I'm Josh Hotz." He extends a hand, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "I always knew we were destined to meet again, Alicia Rivera."

And she looks into his eyes, and she won't be associated with him, she can't be. She's starting a new life, but he knows an old secret, one she wants, _needs_, to hide. If anyone here finds out she was a terrible alcoholic . . .

Alicia spins on her heel, without sparing a glance over her shoulder, and walks away.

Josh stares after her, his jaw dropped, his eyes cloudy.

He sits at his desk in the hallway and drops his forehead to the wooden surface, wanting to cry.

Men don't cry.

* * *

_ooh, you're an angel in disguise; i can see it in your eyes_

_angel, madonna_

According to average statistics, Halloween is not a holiday that is celebrated in Westchester, New York. But this isn't an average Halloween, and Massie Block and Derrick Harrington aren't an average couple.

Massie Block is eight months pregnant. Derrick is a loving about-to-be father who has enough money to support his wife and almost-due daughter without being a workaholic. They have plans to visit one of their favorite **cafes**, which holds a yearly costume party.

Definitely not average.

Massie twirls in her slinky white gown, feathered wings clipped to her shoulders, a tiny halo attached to a headband perched on her straight chestnut-colored locks, looking like a petite, gorgeous model for sexy maternity costumes. _What could be better?_ Derrick thinks to himself. He's wearing a demon outfit: an entirely black suit and huge black wings. His tie is laced with red, and Massie had cajoled him into applying a thin line of sparkling red eyeliner, and he has to admit it does add to the overall effect.

"You look amazing," he speaks, rubbing her belly, which protrudes through the filmy satin. "And so do you," he adds, bending so he's at eye level with his unborn child.

"Thank you very much." Massie stops her spinning and approaches seductively, caressing his waist with soft hands and pulling him closer to her.

Although he wants nothing more than a night of intimacy, he remembers what the doctor said: "From now on, not until the baby is born, alright?" Derrick bites his lip, trying to control himself. If he had known that this is what having a kid entails, he's not entirely sure he would have agreed to one. "God, I can't wait until she arrives," he whispers, nibbling on Massie's pale neck.

"Me either," she murmurs back, lifting his head up and kissing his lips.

Then suddenly, she's writhing on the floor.

:'*':

Derrick's eyes fly open from their almost-shut state, and he drops to his knees, ignoring them as they crack against the hardwood floor of their modest three-story house. "Honey, are you okay? Sweetie, it's okay," he says, fighting the panic that is rising up in his throat. "Massie?"

"It's the baby," she gasps out, her throat rasping. She's breathing heavily now, panting as though she's run hundreds of miles, sweat pouring down her forehead. Her dress is already soaked, and although Derrick wants nothing more than to remove it from her body and kiss the perspiration away, he pushes away the urge and tightens his stomach.

"Now?" he asks.

"Now."

:'*':

Massie Block has been in labor for eight hours, each more nerve-wracking than the last. Derrick has chewed his fingernails to stubs and is considering starting on his toes when a doctor walks up.

"Good news and bad news," she announces without preamble.

Derrick tries to brace himself against the images whirring through his head. "Your daughter is beautiful, your wife is dead" is one, and "they're both going to die, but for now you can see them" is another. "Spill," he orders. "Right now, or I swear to God-"

"Massie is in serious pain, but she'll certainly pull through. But we know what the issue is: she's going to have twins."

_"Twins?"_ They aren't prepared for two babies. This changes things. Now he'll have to be at court more often, argue more cases, make enough money to keep them all going, keep their house in repair, keep everything okay for all of them. But this is how horrible Westchester families start, and he's determined that they not turn into one of those.

"Yes, Mr. Harrington, twins." The doctor smiles. "Her clothes are piled outside the room, and she'd like you to come in."

An idea forms in his head, making his eyes twinkle. "Can I have five minutes?" he questions.

"Of course."

:'*':

Derrick grabs her clothes, quickly ducking into an unoccupied room, locking the door, and changing into them. He examines his reflection in a cabinet mirror, laughs a little, and gathers up his own deposited clothing, folding it neatly and leaving it where Massie's had been piled. Then he opens the door where his wife is giving birth.

Too late.

Massie Block is sitting up in her hospital bed, holding a child in each arm.

"A name?" the nurse asks kindly, holding a pen above a clipboard.

"Elisabeth Grace," Massie replies, giving the name that she and Derrick decided on. She's still looking at her infants, her gaze focused solely on them.

"And Sydney," Derrick speaks. "Is Sydney alright, honey?"

"Sydney," Massie coos, still not looking up. "Sydney Rose. Elisabeth Grace and Sydney Rose." Finally, she looks up at her husband, who is approaching, his arms out. "Derrick!" she shouts. "What are you wearing?"

He's outfitted in her angel costume, complete with silver heels and diamond stud earrings. "I'm being you, sweetie," he says, unable to think of a reason except that he felt like being a goof; he thought it would help her get through labor.

"Oh, there's no need for dressing up, Derrick, I always knew you were an angel."

* * *

_we can build a beautiful city - not a city of angels, but a city of men  
city of angels, godspell_

It's the reunion of the 2012 class of Briarwood Octavian Country Day. At least a hundred people stand gathered in the crowded space.

The women are dressed in long gowns, either jewel-toned or neutral, with high heels, their hair done up in flowers and tiaras. They grip champagne glasses.

The men stand with them, attired in suits and ties, with Italian leather dress shoes and and flowers in their lapels.

It's supposed to be a remake of their prom, the prom that was cancelled when Olivia Ryan was caught with Todd Lyons in the bushes, doing things they shouldn't have been doing until after the couples retreated to their expensive, pre-booked hotels.

:'*':

They seem to gravitate towards each other, almost. Ten young adults meet in the corner of the huge ballroom, smiling at each other with thin lips, their eyes twinkling with suspicion.

Massie Block, the former Alpha of the Pretty Committee, the former Alpha of the school, a legend in the eyes of young girls, a myth in the eyes of young boys. Her arm is linked with Derrick Harrington's, the former leader of the Briarwood Boys, the only ones the Pretty Committee deemed worthy of dating.

Alicia Rivera, alone, her chest still bursting out of a too-tight bodice. Joshua Hotz watches her with puppy-dog eyes, but she pretends not to notice him.

Dylan Marvil. A broad man with a walkie-talkie and a tablet stands across the room, watching her through slitted eyes, and it's easy to tell why. Dylan's red hair is lank, her dress falling off her body in all the wrong places, her shoes too small, her jewelry too big. Her once-gleaming irises are deadened, her smile tilted at the right corner, her cheeks too pale. She looks petrified to be in public, especially with Christopher Plovert, who stands across from her, smirking evilly.

Kristen Gregory is the only one there with a child. Even as a grown woman, she still has responsibilities separate from her peers. She holds the hand of a girl who can't be more than three ("Summer," she'd introduced her as {it was the season where she made the decision that changed her life; the season she wished she could go back to and change her mind}), and her smile is as plastic as the rest of theirs. Kemp Hurley, of all people, is next to her, a hand on her shoulder, but it's clear she couldn't care less about him. She just wants the money.

Claire Lyons, the innocent, wears a revealing cerulean lace gown by Prada, an engagement ring on her finger. Cameron Fisher is hugging her from behind, peering over her shoulder at the rest of the group.

They stand silently, wishing there were words that just aren't there.

:'*':

"This is crazy," Claire finally declares, her eyes sweeping them all. "If there's someone here you can't stand, tell them. Go talk to those people. Don't you all remember when we loved each other, when we were so close, when we could go to anyone here if we had secrets, fears, pains, excitement? Don't you _remember_?" Her lilting voice is turning dark with pleading, and her blue eyes are tearing. "Don't you _remember_?"

Eventually, their heads heavy, they each nod once, their eyes involuntarily locking on the person that caused them pain and heartache.

"Please," Claire says quietly, "just say a few words. It makes such a difference."

:'*':

The Pretty Committee seek each other out first, leaving the boys to congregate on their own.

"We're all sorry for something," Claire murmurs as encouragement, and that's all they need.

"I'm sorry I was such a bitch to you when we went our separate ways," Massie rushes, the words spilling out of her mouth. "It was horrible of me; I tore us apart and I've regretted it since it happened. And now I have twin daughters and a son coming and I still don't talk to you and I want to; my kids don't even have godparents!" She turns to Claire. "Claire Lyons, will you be the godmother to my children?"

"Of course," Claire says graciously, "and I think it's my turn. I'm sorry that I ignored you all my senior year, when I just so blissfully happy with Cam. I ditched you all time and time again, and it was terrible, and I really want to be friends with all of you again."

"I'm sorry," Alicia mutters dully, "for turning to alcohol and losing touch. It's just that Massie was with Derrick and kind of shunning us, and Claire was with Cam, and Kristen-"

"I'll take it from here," Kristen says forcefully, still gripping her child's hand. "I'm sorry that I was so obsessed with soccer and grades and not hanging out with you guys enough; it turns out I didn't even go to college. I became . . ."

"A prostitute at Aqua Steam," Dylan fills in quietly. "You think the nurses at the hospital don't talk? I know Chris was hooking up with you when he was with me. I'm not crazy. I might look it. But I'm not. I'm just really scared. Chris abused me for a long time, guys, and I couldn't . . ."

And suddenly Kristen, the rock, the strongest of them all, was crying hysterically. Dylan engulfed the blonde in her arms as she whimpered, "He abused me too, Dylan, and he's the one who got me pregnant. Summer is . . . his child." She wants nothing more than to send her daughter running, to chase her out of the room, to kill the girl who reminds her of Christopher Plovert. But she won't, because that's not who she is. She's stronger than that.

:'*':

And now Dylan knows what will save her, what will plant her feet back on the ground. She has to do it. Dragging her feet, she makes her way over to the boy (man) she hates. "Chris," she whispers, her voice weary.

"Dylan, listen, I'm-"

"I don't need your fake apologies. That's not what I'm here for. Not at all. And I don't understand what you did. That's not it either. And we're definitely not going to have a happy ending. No way. I just . . . I want you to know that I'm over being petrified of you. I can bring you to court now. I have Kristen as a fellow prosecutor, and I'm sure we can win this case, and send you to jail. I'm sure of it."

"I did nothing to you," he hisses harshly.

"Are you sure?" Dylan begins rolling up the sleeve of her velvet dress.

Christopher slaps her hand down. "Not here! What are you, bitch, crazy or something?"

"That's exactly what I mean." A smirk plays her pale features.

"And I did nothing to Kristen. She signed up to be what she was."

Dylan wants to ask why Chris won't say the word _stripper_ but will have sex with one. But she won't. Dylan doesn't think she can handle that quite yet. "It's against the law not to use protection, Christopher."

"You can't prove anything," he sneers.

"I want you to know I have the scars, and the bruises. They're still here, and they won't go away. But I'll get past it. You won't."

:'*':

Alicia tears chunks of flesh out her lips and tongue as she drags her feet over to where Josh stands by himself, still seeking her out with those beautiful eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I shouldn't have ran away from you that day; I should have thanked you for helping me, because you did, more than you know. And, well, I guess I'd just like another chance. A new beginning. Please."

"Of course." The beam that lights up his face brings an identical expression to hers. Josh extends a hand. "Hi, my name is Joshua Hotz, and I like your dress. What's your name?"

Alicia shakes. "I'm Alicia Rivera, and I like your suit. Do you want to dance?"

"I'd be honored."

:'*':

Kemp Hurley never quite had a girlfriend, not someone real or true. But now he has Kristen. He knows Kristen's only in it for the cash that she needs to raise Summer healthily and happily. But he's happy to do just that much for her, because he's loved her for longer than he can remember.

He can recall what she said the first time they met: "Heard you're a player. Nice to meet you, I'm the coach."

It was true, too, she went through boys faster than Allie-Rose Singer, Massie Block, and Alicia Rivera combined. And Kemp had loved her through all of it.

But love always results in scarred souls.

:'*':

As the reunion breaks up, five boys and five girls once again find themselves next to each other, but now, most of the hostility is gone.

"See, isn't this better?" Massie smiles, as though the clear-the-air talk had been her idea.

Nobody knows exactly what to say. But they all think that maybe they can move on from their pasts, and enter the future with open minds and brave hearts.

None of them are perfect. But all of them together - now that's a 10.


End file.
